Secret of my Temple
by
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In Smokeville where the smell of death seemed inevitable, Amon Campbell and his wife sat on their porch watching the marchers walk to and from, back and forth. Amon sat in an old rocking chair with one of the rocker’s broken, with his lip protruding. The garret snuff dripped from one side of his mouth as he rocked in a limp motion. His wife Maybell sat next to him in a soft sofa-like chair to cushion her bottom, Amon liked to call her sweetie for God knows there were enough of her to be called sweeter. The mid summer sun sat high in the sky, Maybell sat waving flies from her greens and pigtails as she sopped them with her hands not needing one utensil, only those the good Lord gave her. Smokeville was the kind of town many of you know or have lived in at some point in life or perhaps, you know someone from there. The white minorities ruled for years over the many, the blacks were the majority. A quiet slow town where one could live in the city or on the farm picking cotton, and raising food but for Amon and Maybell living where the action was were for them. *** Marcus Woodsome, one leader of the march which Amon watched frigidly from his limp rocker, walked near the sidewalk in front of Amon’s house and asked for a cold glass of water. "Say mister, could I have a cold glass of water?" Marcus asked. "What you say boy?" Amon asked snappily. "Could I have a cold glass of water?" Marcus repeated. Amon hesitated and stared at the young man for a moment, he rose from the chair almost turning it over. "Why sure thing son, wait right there, I’ll be right back". Marcus waited patiently in the hot sun holding his sign, never letting it touch the ground like the American flag. He wore a long dashiki with many colors, jeans, and bracelet that looked to have come from an ancient time. Marcus lived in Smokeville all his life and his Grandmother still lived on the plantation but he had seen too often the sins of white folks. Amon returned with the water and walked to the fence, passing it to the young man, it was a hot day in Smokeville; Amon noticed how young the boy was who thirst for something cool to drink, he noticed the seriousness in Marcus’ eyes, one his uncle George had in his during the time he told him of a lynching. Amon stood with his hands on the fence watching Marcus as he gulped down the water; he took a spit in the dirt and rubbed it in the dirt. "Thank you sir", Marcus replied passing the glass back. "You are welcome son, what’s all this marching for?" Amon asked. "It’s for equal rights and justice sir", Marcus replied. "Justice!" Amon said laughing as he took another spit repeating the same ritual. "That’s right, justice", Marcus replied forcefully. "Son I been around here for eighty years and I ain’t seen freedom yet", Amon belted out. "Sir why do you spit and rub it in the dirt with your feet?" Marcus asked. "Well son my uncle always told me, whenever you see a white person, spit and rub it in the dirt because that’s what you really want to do to them", Amon replied. "Thanks again sir", Marcus said going back into the fold with his sign. Thinking how young and crazy young people were, wearing long dresses like women and jewelry, Amon walked toward his house shaking his head.
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About the Book
Civil Rights for African Americans has and always will be a continuous struggle, but as Amon and Sweetie learned there can be some sweet victories as Marcus Woodson demonstrated through his efforts. This compelling work by the author of Straight Jacket has again taken us to the depths and heart of the Movement.
About the Author
Willie Fields, Jr. has written numerous collections of poetry, essays, novels, and lyrics. Mr. Fields has worked as an extra in Congo and the movie Crossing Guard. He has written several screenplays and is currently working on another book. Mr. Field's work has been read throughout the U. S. and countries around the world. He is no doubt one of the most prolific writers of this age. If you have not read any of his work, you should. If you haven't heard of him, you will.